Tag: sharing

My Mom and Dad moved back on to the family farm, when I was about four. Dad had worked in the oilfield, but he wanted to farm. Grandpa Pat was ready to slow down, and then died. We moved into the old farm house. It was a sea foam green two story house, that originally only had an outhouse. Grandpa and Grandma had taken a porch and made it into a small den, bathroom and enlarged the kitchen area. It sat on a dirt basement, with a coal burning stove that heated the house, sometimes. In the coldest days of the winter months, we would all sleep in the living room, with a blanket blocking off the kitchen-half of the house, the door shut to the upstairs, and the furnace full of coal, trying to heat that little bit of house we were sleeping in. We didn’t mind much; we were warm, and it was “camping out” to us kids.

The only thing we had to worry about on those nights, is that the mice wanted to be warm too. They would come up from the basement, and risk life-or-death, by running around. They especially liked to surprise you in the bathroom. I would be sitting on the toilet, and a mouse, or two would come out and look at me. We both had our jobs to do-me finishing my toileting and them trying to survive.

Dad would periodically catch a bull snake and release him into the basement, to try and control the population, but never seemed to make much difference. It only made going down to get canned goods more interesting, as I was terrified, the mouse would survive and I would not.

Dad later gave the house away to the mover, who sold or gave it to someone in the White Earth Valley. Dad told me in later years they used it for their animals. We built a new house, whose only infiltrators were salamanders, or a calf or lamb, who were brought in by the humans.

I was lucky enough to have repeat performances of mouse escapades, when I lived in a 12×60 trailer house in an oil camp, in 1978-1982. I was visiting with my mother-in- law on the phone, when I saw the tinfoil move, that was covering the roast beef on the counter. I looked again in time to see a mouse pull a piece of beef off the plate, slide it across a bit of counter and take it down behind the stove. There were times I would be laying in bed nursing my oldest son, and a mouse would come out from his hiding and look up at me, with no fear in his eyes. We were outnumbered.

When we sold that trailer house, very soon after that, I pictured it going down the road to Billings, Montana; the mice waving goodbye as they began their new adventure.

An interesting insight into my life on the farm? I have tried to give you a few of them, so you know who I am; based on my experiences you can see when we are similar. So you can believe me, when I tell you I understand where many of you have been.

I was watching TV one morning, working on a Soduko puzzle. I’m trying to keep my brain more toned than my body. The announcement came on that Charlie Rose had been suspended. I set my puzzle down and tried to take it in; I’m obviously not one of those people oblivious to abuse; I’ve had my share of it, in several different versions, but Charlie Rose… I didn’t see that coming. Many of the broadcasters have made the point of saying, how do we balance our feelings for someone we care about, who has done something so wrong. I don’t care if it’s the Senator from Michigan, or Alabama, or our favorite morning news commentator, the President, or family member. It hurts when someone we respect, betrays trust.

How do we balance our feelings? By lashing out at others? The women in this case, and there have been men in other cases as well, are like mice…They for whatever reason, have held on for five, or ten, or 40 years. Their lives were changed, but they survived by doing what they had to do. Victims are like mice, stories of abuse are like mice…if there is one, there is more.

The stories in the news have been mostly sexual abuse of power, but my analogy can be any form of abuse. I have thoughts and prayers in my heart right now for people who are physically, emotionally, and verbally abused as well. Verbal and emotional abuse leave no outward physical scars, but the damage is so difficult to overcome. Please don’t become so comfortable with it, because of your family, or culture that you don’t pay attention to the mice.

Trust; the way a child feels about their parent, a dog feels about its owner, a child towards a grandparent, a spouse to spouse….. how do we define it or explain how we lose it?

I don’t know what was wrong with me, when I was a kid. I loved to jump… I was like a little Mexican Jumping Bean… My Dad tells the story of standing in front of the barn working on something; I had climbed to the top of the old two story barn; was only about five, and said, “Daddy should I jump?” He said, “I don’t care.”, never in a million years thinking I would. He said he saw a shadow come over his shoulder, and he looked and I had landed in the hay pile next to him. I jumped off of everything…one afternoon I was practicing my jumping bean routine and Dad had tired of it. He came upstairs, in our old farm house and said, “I’m going to break you of your jumping.” He proceeded to have me jump off of everything: beds, dressers, chairs, and finally the banister of the stairs. He caught me every time, until the bannister. I jumped and he stepped back. When I landed on the floor, I asked him why he hadn’t caught me. He said, “Don’t trust anyone, not even your Papa.” He told me later that his father had said the same thing to him, at some point in his life. I understood little of trust at that age, and only thought about it retrospectively later. How sad it is not to be able to trust.

I don’t jump anymore: I’m afraid of heights and would probably break an ankle, or a hip. 🙂 I’m not very good at trusting either. Do you trust? Who would you let catch you if you jumped. I have seen the trust fall demonstrated at conferences. You fall back into a colleagues arms…. scary!

I do still try…trusting with bits at a time…my husband, our children, (I trust most dogs!) working on it! Working on trust leads to disappointment sometimes. My oldest son told me that I always expect people to do the right thing and that’s why I’m disappointed. I do expect people to do the right thing and I’m tough; I can stand a little disappointment as long as there’s the chance… Trust!

We all know stories; stories passed down through our families, fables of our cultures, gossip about the neighbor. How do we know when we can share a story; have a teaching moment, use someone as an example either negative or positive? This is the deal, unless it’s our story, we have to be very careful. I like the “Do unto others as you would want them to do to you.” I am pretty open with you about my story, but I don’t tell all. Maybe I will someday, but that will be my choice…it’s my story.

A friend called me a couple of weeks ago and said, “I want to tell you a story,”. She began to share some family history and after about thirty minutes of discussion, she said “I think I know someone who may have been abused. How do I get them to tell me?” Well that’s the crux, you can’t get anyone to tell you anything. They need to be in the right place to trust and to share, and you might not be the person they tell their story too for any number of reasons.

Many people have the ability to bury their abuse and the pain of pulling it out might be too much for them. We have to respect that. Survivors are doing just that, surviving and their process is not ours to judge. I’ve noticed that surviving is like an addiction in a way. If you stay away from the subject, you’re good, even though it might be lurking in the background, but I can imagine that for some, dipping your toe in the past might cause you to jump in, unable to swim, only gulping water. Many victims, who haven’t achieved survivor mode, feel guilty and ashamed, because they’ve been told that they are guilty and shameful. Some have told their story and weren’t believed, or worse yet shunned for their openness. Many have buried themselves in addiction of drugs, alcohol, food, or abusive behaviors leveled at themselves or even become abusers themselves. So many stories buried behind covers, that for some reason or another can’t be opened. It’s so sad.

“What can I do?” was her next question. What a wonderful person, to ask “what can I do?” You can set an example of not telling other’s stories. Be a safe place, listen and be trustworthy. It’s not enough to say your trustworthy, BE trustworthy. Have you ever heard that saying that if someone has to tell you they are something, they probably aren’t? We set the examples; we screw up, but we have to try hard to set the example. I have had many people tell me their stories, after I have shared mine, or said I was writing this blog. They feel that if I can trust them, they can trust me back. I don’t forget their stories and only share them generically.

We we all need to tell our stories when we are ready, and for some people that may be never, but be ready……the person they choose to share it with, could be you. It’s an honor to be that person.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

To laugh often and much; To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; To earn the appreciation of honest critics and to endure the betrayal of false friends; To appreciate beauty; To find the best in others; To leave the world a bit better by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.

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